Serenity
by Ink Mage
Summary: Because the Phantom deserves a happy ending too. Two-shot. WARNING: BRIEF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS
1. Chapter 1

_**A.N. Hello readers! This is actually a multi-chapter fanfiction! (Okay, let's be honest—it's a two-shot.) I wrote this after seeing 'Love Never Dies'—Andrew Lloyd Webber's attempt at writing a sequel to the Phantom of the Opera. I found it absolutely awful for numerous reasons. So here's my own fic—trying to prove that you can write a sequel where the Phantom gets a happy ending without breaking up Christine and Raoul and introducing the Phantom's illegitimate son. Be warned, the first chapter may not look relevant, but my motives will be shown soon. Anything you recognize doesn't belong to me. The legend in the first chapter does.**_

_Many years ago, in the time of our forefathers, there was a noble prince. He was a just and wise leader, and all who saw him loved him. His father was proud to have such a noble son, and named the prince his heir. All loved the prince… except for his cousin. His cousin felt cheated that the prince was heir. He had been heir before the prince was born, and raged at the fact that he now would not become king. That is, unless the prince came to an unfortunate end. The cousin began to plot the death of the prince. One day, as the prince laid asleep in his chamber, the cousin took a knife in order to slit his throat. The cousin loomed over the prince, knife poised. However, woken by fate or instinct, the prince snapped awake. The murderous blow missed its mark. Instead, the knife slashed across the prince's face. The cousin, realizing his mistake, tried to plunge his blade into the prince's heart. But now the prince was awake, and was no easy mark. The prince dove out the window, and dashed across the ledge below. When the guards came in, alerted by the noise and confusion, they found the cousin holding a bloodstained knife… but the prince was nowhere to be seen._

_Months passed. The prince ran from his home, filled with shame that he had trusted his cousin, and a grave mistrust for all others. His face slowly healed, but the perfection was marred by a large, rope-like scar. The prince hated his scar, because not only was it a sign of his failure—it brought the fear of others upon him. Housewives who had once given him loaves of bread or had smuggled him fresh apples now chased him with brooms. Men who had once taught him their trades—be it tanning, fishing or hunting—now shot him suspicious looks, or told him to "Clear off!", usually with the threat of a beating. Even small children cried and ran if he approached. No one recognized him as the prince. All they saw was an outcast. The prince wandered far from his home. Over time, he became bitter and depressed. In his eyes, with his new deformity, there was nothing left for him in the world. He stood one day on the banks of a river, considering jumping in and ending it all, when someone pushed him instead. He struggled to the surface to find a boy his age. The boy grinned at him, and said, "Is your curiosity satisfied now? The water is cold. It steals your breath and freezes your blood. So if you want to kill yourself, I'd find another way." At first, the prince considered being angry at the boy. But his humor caught up with him. The prince couldn't help but laugh at his sorry plight. The boy reached in to pull him out, and took the prince to find some dry clothes._

_The boy was part of a gypsy tribe—wanderer and outcasts who travelled lawlessly across the land. These gypsies focused mostly on music, each having a talent with music. The prince found himself joining in with them, singing and playing the fiddle. (Of course he had been taught the violin, but the cruder instrument was similar enough for him.) He rejoiced in being accepted again, for the first time in months, and so when the gypsy tribe pulled up camp again, he joined them. As the years went by, the prince grew proud and strong. He had won the hearts of the gypsy tribe, who had learned over the years how to look past a person's history or appearance. The prince rose to become the leader of the tribe, and he lead them like he would have lead his country if given the chance. But the gypsies knew of the prince's troubled heart. He often mourned the loss of society, or rather, his forced separation from it. The prince could still no longer go out in public. His only way to escape prosecution was to wear a mask that the cobbler had made for him—a beautiful creation that mimicked a bird from a distant land. But it still shamed him to be the only one forced to hide his face from the world. So the gypsies banded together. One day when the prince rose, he realized that each gypsy had taken a mask of his or her own. Masks of all colors, all themes, all designs littered the camp. They ranged from a tinker who had taken a simple black bandit's mask, to a fire-breather who had created a mask to imitate his craft. The sights of these masks were worn as a sign of devotion to the prince, so he would no longer stand out. And as time passed, even after the prince had died—the gypsies still wore their masks, to show to the world that in this manner at least, they were all equal._


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N. Hey everyone, here's the second piece of the two-shot. A quick shout out to Rosethorn, who reviewed the first part. Just to warn you guys, the Phantom will be OOC here. But this is my story and my interpretation, so if you don't like it… tough cookies.**

It was all over. It was all gone. The Phantom bit back a sob as he raced his horse across the country road. It felt so good to have the fresh air on his face—on _all_ of his face—but what it signified was heart wrenching. Everything he had… was gone. His lair beneath the Opera Populare had been discovered, his mask left there for the lawmen who were hunting him down. Madame Giry, his only friend through the long years, had abandoned him. His enemy, Raoul, had bested him once and for all. And Christine… _Christine_… his love had chosen another. There was nothing left for him in Paris. Even his beautiful opera house could not convince him to stay. So he took a horse from the opera stables, and rode north. The horse was strong and fast. Each stride it took was bitter-sweet—it was taking him away from the bad memories, but it was also removing him from everything he had known. He rode as long as the horse was able to carry him, but eventually, it began to signal its exhaustion. The Phantom reined it in, and looked at his surroundings. The city of Paris had fallen away to rolling paddocks and forests. Sheep, cows and horses grazed in well-tended fields that were bordered by rough stone walls. Small farm houses sat nestled in shaded laneways, and in the distance, the Phantom could hear the rhythmic chanting of men, hard at work. 'I can't stay here,' he thought immediately. 'It's too intimate, too familiar. One person will see me, and within the hour, the entire town will be after me.' He had experienced the phenomenon as a child, running from the circus that had intended to turn him into a freak-show. There was only one avenue for escape. The Phantom left the horse in one of the paddocks for the farmer, and headed alone towards the woods.

The woods were cool and green. No human soul walked among the leaves apart from the Phantom, so the staggering anxiety that someone might see his face was quelled. This place brought a sense of peace to him. The manic hustle of the opera house was familiar to the Phantom, but it had not been an easy place to live. Always on his guard, always waiting for a cleaner to come around the corner or a ballet star to come out from their dressing room at the wrong moment… it was exhausting. But with the peace this place brought came the memories of what he had lost. The Phantom regretted his actions. He had loved Christine… loved her with all his heart. And maybe she would have loved him too—in time. But fate had delivered Raoul, and the Phantom had tried to force him away from her. Instead, all he had done was scare her off. Now he had lost his beloved Opera Popuare, and had been cast away. He could never return. His entire life's work, his meaning… was gone. The Phantom walked on, going further and further into the unknown—the eventual sunlight almost blinded him. When his eyes adjusted, he found himself on the edge of a clearing. Tall grass waved in the morning sun. Birds were swooping through the air, singing tunes that even the most skilled of composers couldn't hope to reproduce. A brook was cheerfully skipping over the rocks and stones to accumulate in a small lake. It was… beautiful. The Phantom made his way to the brook, and rested on a ledge. The water was serene, deep and blue… like the underground lake of his home. Almost unconsciously, the Phantom began to sing:

_Say you love me every waking moment, _

_Turn my head with talk of summertime . . .  
>Say you need me with you, now and always . . .<br>promise me that all you say is true – _

_Christine, that's all I ask of you . . ._

"Christine, eh?" A male voice with a strong American accent said from above him. "And I'm assuming this Christine rejected your advances?" The Phantom spun, almost tumbling off the ledge and into the water below. His hand went to his belt, where he normally kept his lasso—which he had left with his mask in the Opera House. _His mask!_ The Phantom raised his hand to cover the right side of his face. It would have to do. He then took a good look at the man who had intruded into his thoughts. The man was about 20 years old. He had sandy blonde hair, brown eyes and a fair complection. He was wearing a type of tunic, belted around his waist. His pants were slightly baggy, and made out of a corse material. However, the most startling thing about him was the half-face cat's mask he was wearing. It poked above his face in a pair of delicate ears, covered his forehead in tones of silver and gold, and ended just below a shimmering cat's nose. It was so… unexpected… that the Phantom almost let his hand drop. Quickly he remembered, and snapped out a "Who are you?" The man in the cat's mask laughed. "The name's Luca. I'm one of the Roma who are resting over the other side of the clearing—you know, gypsies?" Erik looked, and sure enough, he could just make out a gypsy camp on the other edge. How had he missed that? "You looked like you could use a friend." The Phantom wanted to snap at him—tell the world that he needed no one. After all, he was the Opera Ghost, with a heart of stone. But the strange man smiled at him with a set of hopeful eyes, and however much he wanted to deny it, his heart was bruised. So when Luca reached out a hand, the Phantom took it, and allowed himself to be lead to the camp.

Luca wasn't the only person in a mask. The Phantom looked around him in poorly concealed astonishment. Every man, woman and child was wearing a mask in this camp. It was like being in the costume house of the Opera Populaire again. Every type of mask was there, from a simple mask like he had worn for so many years to masks ordained with feathers and lace. Only the youngest of the children ran without masks. In a way, it made the Phantom feel… naked. He missed his mask. His hand still hadn't left his face, and only the grip Luca had on his hand, and the offer of a friendship – a real friendship!—was stopping him from running. Once the Phantom had moved past from the masks, he heard the true explosion of sound. Singing, violins, drums, flutes… even the Opera house was never this chaotic. But the music soothed the Phantom's soul. Finally, they reached their destination. A group of men and women sat around the fire. Luca pulled the Phantom over to one of them—an elderly man in a red jester full-face mask. His silver hair was the only sign of his age. "Father," Luca said with a grin, "He followed me home. He can sing. Can we keep him?" The Phantom bristled, but the man just laughed. "Patience, Luca," he entreated. The man rose to his feet and approached the Phantom. "I am Nicu, leader of this band of outcasts. We're known for our music, and for our masks—which we wear to show the world that there is no difference between us. If you want," he paused, "You would certainly be free to join us." He reached behind him, and picked up a mask from the log being used as a table. The mask was exquisite—a full face mask. Half of it was in the style of a sickle moon, silver and mysterious. The other half was in the style of a sun, gold and full of hope. "Nadya told me I would need it today, though she wouldn't say why… So, would you like to join our band?" The Phantom barely hesitated before saying, "Yes." He reached for the mask, but Nicu drew it a way. "One more thing…" The Phantom tensed, expecting to have to give something to be here. After all, who would want him? "I need to know your name." The Phantom started. Of all the requests the man could have made, that was the one he was least expecting. "So, who are you, brother?" Nicu pushed out his right hand. The Phantom paused for a moment, staring at him. _His name…_ he had had so many of those—Phantom, Opera Ghost, freak, devil's spawn… but only one was right for a new life. He grabbed Nicu's offered hand, ignoring the fact that it left his face uncovered. "Erik," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "My name's Erik."


End file.
